


This Blessed Angel Came

by Elsajeni



Series: Good Omens Tinyfics [10]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Christmas Music, Hand Jobs, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21939187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsajeni/pseuds/Elsajeni
Summary: “Not that I’m not having a nice time,” Crowley says, raising his head for a moment, “but when you said you’d put on some music, this isn’texactlythe soundtrack I had in mind.”“Shh,” Aziraphale says, and pulls him back in for another kiss. And then another, longer and deeper and tasting of mulled wine, and his hand is sliding up Crowley’s ribs under his shirt, and–- all right, maybe the Christmas carols aren’tthatbig of a problem.Inspired bythis excellent tumblr postby fremulon, of course.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Tinyfics [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1443157
Comments: 69
Kudos: 334





	This Blessed Angel Came

“Not that I’m not having a nice time,” Crowley says, raising his head for a moment, “but when you said you’d put on some music, this isn’t _exactly_ the soundtrack I had in mind.”

“Shh,” Aziraphale says, and pulls him back in for another kiss. And then another, longer and deeper and tasting of mulled wine, and his hand is sliding up Crowley’s ribs under his shirt, and–- all right, maybe the Christmas carols aren’t _that_ big of a problem.

Crowley does keep half an ear tuned to the music, though, and is mildly dismayed to realize that, apparently, this particular record includes _every verse_ of _every bloody carol_ -– who even knew there _were_ five verses to “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” let alone that one of them gets weirdly personal about Mary’s womb? He briefly thinks about complaining again, this time about more than just the subject matter, but just then Aziraphale nips at the side of his throat and shifts beneath him in a way that very effectively refocuses his attention, and he forgets all about it.

Sometime later–- possibly much later; Crowley’s sense of time has gone a bit fuzzy, partly attributable to several excellent bottles of wine but _mostly_ attributable to one soft and wanton angel-– he tunes in again and catches “We Three Kings” rounding the corner into its fourth verse, the weird grim one about myrrh. He’s always rather liked that bit, actually, darkness and death creeping in around the edges of all the ostentatious Christmas cheer. So maybe there are some pluses to Aziraphale’s awful taste in Christmas records.

And of course, if they’re doing _all_ the verses... Crowley’s mind slips ahead to the next verse, and an idea occurs to him. A terrible idea. An idea that’s asking for a smiting, frankly.

It’s irresistible. He disentangles his hands from Aziraphale’s hair, shifting his grip to the angel’s shirt just long enough for one more kiss, and then slithers off the couch to the floor, landing on his knees. Aziraphale props himself up on an elbow to look down at him, flushed and breathing hard, and demands, “What are you up to?”

“As if you weren’t expecting this,” Crowley says, reaching for the fly of Aziraphale’s trousers. The buttons are fiddly, and getting the timing exactly right ends up requiring one _very_ minor miracle, but he manages it, the fifth verse hitting just as he frees Aziraphale’s prick–- “Glorious now,” he intones along with the choir, grinning broadly, as it springs free of the fabric, “behold him arise-–”

Aziraphale turns even pinker-– Satan, how Crowley loves to see him blush-– and scolds, “Blasphemy,” swatting at Crowley’s hand.

“The music wasn’t _my_ idea, angel.” Crowley climbs back up onto the couch, straddling his lap, still grinning. “It’s not some deep-seated angel thing, is it? Turned on by sacred music?”

“Stop it,” Aziraphale says, a little too breathless to sound like he means it.

Crowley laughs and leans in for another kiss, slow and sweet and then shading into filthy, one hand in Aziraphale’s hair and the other slipping down to wrap around his cock. “You know,” he murmurs, when their mouths slip apart, “it’s understandable, really. Lots of flattering lines about angels and Heaven and all. A little self-centered, maybe–-”

“Crowley, _please_ -–”

“Mm. Please stop talking about Christmas carols, or please stop doing this-–” he twists his hand-– “or please _keep_ doing this–-”

Aziraphale makes an absolutely indecent noise, gasps, “ _Please_ shut up,” and then grabs him by the end of his scarf and reels him in to kiss again, which doesn’t leave him much choice about shutting up.

He doesn’t, technically, answer the question about what Crowley’s doing with his hand-– unless the way he rocks his hips up into it counts as an answer, which Crowley decides it does. So he keeps his hand moving, slow and teasing until Aziraphale is panting into his mouth, still half-listening to the music and waiting, waiting-– and there it is, and he really is going to get smote for this one, but he picks up his pace and kisses the very breath from Aziraphale’s lungs and, at _just_ the right moment, whispers along with the soloist into his ear, “O come, O come–-” and to his unending delight Aziraphale _does_ , even as he’s starting to laugh.

In the quiet afterward, it takes several breathless, giggly false starts before Aziraphale manages to say, “You are _terrible_.”

“You love me.”

“It’s a _solemn hymn_ about freedom from-–” Aziraphale shuts his mouth sharply, presumably because he’s realized he’s about to say ‘bondage’ and had a premonition about what will happen if he does, and tries for a glare. It’s not very convincing. “I ought to throw you out of the shop.”

“Heartless,” Crowley protests. “Have you seen the snow out there? I’m cold-blooded, I’ll freeze to death.”

“A couple of weeks of torpor would do you good. I’ll pick you up in the new year, I’ll have forgotten how irritating you are by then.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I assure you I would,” Aziraphale says-– but he’s saying it into the soft skin of Crowley’s throat, with Crowley clasped warm and safe against his chest, so it lacks some credibility as a threat.

(A while later, Crowley tips his head toward the record player and says, “Oh, there’s a verse about you in this one, isn’t there?” And, when Aziraphale shakes his head, “No, listen, here it is-– ‘Lo, this blessed angel-–’” Aziraphale hits him with a pillow before he gets to ‘came,’ and then rolls over, laughing, to pin him to the couch and kiss him soundly, and before long he’s forgotten all about the terrible Christmas music again.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] This blessed angel came - Elsajeni](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24407872) by [LenaReads (LenaLawlipop)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LenaLawlipop/pseuds/LenaReads)




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